My Little Mockingjay
by grednforgesgirl
Summary: Katniss has never wanted children. Ever. Peeta has always wanted children. When he starts to push her, things get a little complicated. Basically, a set of drabbles surrounding Peeta and Katniss having children.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Hello, dear readers! Me again! This story is basically a set of drabbles centered around Katniss and Peeta having children. The different chapters don't necessarily connect to one another, but they are sort-of related. Well, I'll let you use your judgment. Nor is there necessarily a 'plot' other than Katniss and Peeta having children. Please enjoy and think about leaving a review at the end of the chapter! Enjoy!_

**My Little Mockingjay**

_It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not by much._

I would never have children. I swore against it. I would never go through the heartache of having to watch, helpless, as my children's names went in that glass ball to enter a fight to the death. I would keep them safe by never having them. Never even letting them enter this cold, cruel, screwed up world.

My resolution was only hardened when my own name was drawn. When I became a tribute, then a Victor, than a tribute again, and finally the face of the rebellion, the rallying cry, the mockingjay. No. I would never have children after that. I was too broken. I would be a terrible mother. And with Peeta unable to look at me without the Capitol-owned part of his brain telling him to kill me and Gale having pretty much killed my sister? Children were out of the question.

But one thing threw a wrench in my plans. I survived. And Peeta survived. And we grew back together. And we were no longer star-crossed lovers. We were . . . us. We _are_ us. We went through hell and back together and nothing could change that. No one could understand me like he could, and no one could understand him like I could. We were bonded together for life, through experiences if not in words and official documents. For better or worse. And it couldn't get much worse than it already had. So things could only get better.

Agonizingly slow, yes, but better. It took us years to get to a point where we were, if not content, if not satisfied, at least somewhat happy. As in not totally depressed. At least Peeta's flashbacks were at a minimum and I only woke up screaming once a week. My bad days were limited to once a month. Things were getting better. So of course I started to fear they would become worse.

And they did. Or, at least, to me they did. It all started with a single sentence, five years after my return to District 12.

"Katniss, do you ever think about having children?"

Yes, that simple sentence that simultaneously fills me with dread and guilt, and marks the end of no expectations between us.

Because once again I feel like I've tricked Peeta. Have I ever thought about having children? Yes. Yes, in fact, I thought about it quite a lot, actually. But the thought was never in the sense that I might actually have children. It was more of in the sense that I feared having children. An accident is my biggest fear, surpassed only by the fear of losing Peeta. This is why I take every single precaution before I even think of entering the bedroom. It's expensive medicine, sure, but it's not like we don't have the money.

The truth is, is that I can't bear to have children. I can't stand the thought. If I'm so afraid for my children's lives before they were even _born_ then the fear would only get much, much worse if we actually had children. And Peeta…yes…I know that he thinks about it. I can tell by the look in his eyes right now. I can tell by remembering the way he talked about our 'baby' during the Quarter Quell. I can tell because he would be _such_ a wonderful father. And he's Peeta. Of course he wants kids.

And I have not and will never speak a word of them to him. Except to tell him 'no.'

God, I'm a bitch. And a selfish one, at that.

"I don't want to have children," I tell him. Seems I really am a selfish bitch.

"Oh," he says. To his credit, Peeta hides his disappointment well. But not well enough. I can tell by the way he turns his back to me. The way his shoulders slump and his head hangs. I bury my nose in the newspaper, not reading it. All I can think of is how horrible of a person I am. A terrible, terrible person. The guilt is so overwhelming I feel like crying. Tears prick my eyes and I'm grateful for my hiding place behind the _District Twelve Crier._ If he knew how horrible I felt for denying him children then…well, it wouldn't be good.

"Why not?" I hear him ask. I know he's staring at the headline of the paper, trying to see my expression through it. Heat floods through me at the question. A question I don't want to answer.

"Because," I say lamely.

I hear his uneven footsteps cross the kitchen and stop in front of me. The top of my paper crinkles down and his blue eyes peer at me over the top. Slightly confused, somewhere between disappointed and a hint of amused.

"You do realize you're reading this upside down, right?" he says. I focus on the paper and sure enough the words are all upside down. My cheeks burn and I tug the papers out of his grasp, flip it right side up, and hide my face back behind it. "Katniss," says Peeta quietly. Tears prick my eyes again. _Get a grip, Katniss. Time to harden your heart._ It's kind of hard to do, though, with a husband like mine. Who _makes_ me feel those emotions that are supposed to make me human. It started with a burnt loaf of bread and a debt I can never repay and it hasn't gone away since. "Katniss," he says again. This time his tone, so soft and gentle, with just the right hint of pleading and pain that it blurs my eyes with tears. I continue to ignore him.

But when Peeta wants attention, he gets attention. And if I am reluctant to give it to him than he will drag it out of me. His hand closes on the top of the paper and gently tugs it from my grasp. He folds it back up and places it out of reach, his eyes burning into the top of my head, because with lack of anything else to hide me I decide to look down at my hands. His fingers slide under my chin, force my head up, forcing my gaze to meet his. He studies my face, eyebrows drawn together, trying to figure out what's going on in my head.

"Why don't you want children, Katniss?" he murmurs. My bottom lip trembles. A shallow, shuddering breath escapes me and the tears threaten to spill over. Only Peeta could have this kind of effect on me. And he's not even doing it on purpose. It's just who he is. So kind and good and hopeful that he honestly has no idea why I wouldn't want to bring children into this screwed up world. He has no idea what he does to me.

I tear my gaze away from him, push his hands down away from my face. I get up from the table and go to the window to turn my back to him, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. I can sense Peeta's confusion.

"Katniss, I—"

"I just don't, Peeta!" I snap. "I don't want kids! I can't do it! I can't face it! I _don't want to have children!"_

And without looking at him, because it's much easier to ignore his hurt than face it, I storm from the room, escaping out the backdoor. I cross the yard and jump over the low wall. I'm hardly aware of where I'm going. I just know I have to walk. I have to run. I have to escape from my problems. Try to outdistance my thoughts with the speed of my stride.

It's not working.

Why…_why_…why oh why did Peeta have to do this to me? WHY? Everything was fine. Everything was getting better. And then he springs this on me. Like it's nothing. Like it would make me _happy_ to think about having _children._ Well, he's wrong about that. If I have children I will live the rest of my life in fear. Terrible fear. And guilt. I might as well throw that in there as well, because I can't subject anyone—especially someone I'm sure to love—to live in this cruel world. Where people starve and die and we do cruel, horrible things like send children to fight to the death. Where we destroy each other to near extinction…

A strangled chocking sound escapes my throat. Even though I never looked at Peeta's face I can imagine the pain there. I know I've hurt him. I hate that I've hurt him. It's a necessary evil. I will not—I refuse—to have a child. _Why not, Katniss?_

Angry tears stream down my cheeks, only making it halfway before they freeze to my cheeks. I'm an idiot. It's the middle of winter and I walked out of the house without so much as a coat. Lucky I had my boots on. I'm too afraid to go back and get my coat. I keep walking. Faster. Faster. I'm running. I'm sprinting. If I run fast enough I might just outdistance my feelings. I hate myself. I hate myself. _I hate myself…_How can I be such a _bitch_ to the one person who loves me so unconditionally? To the one person who has _always_, _always_ stayed with me? Who I know will never leave me. Or, if he is somehow ripped from me, as when he was highjacked, will move heaven and earth and overcome the impossible to find his way back to me. I'm such a cold, heartless _bitch._

At last when my breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps and the stich in my side becomes immobilizing, I come to an abrupt halt and fall to my knees. I bury my face in my hands, trying to catch my breath coming out in puffs of white cloud, making wheezing noises. And I try, fruitlessly, to staunch my tears.

When I start to shiver from the cold I look up, sniffing. Through blurry tears I observe where my feet have taken me.

I shouldn't be all that surprised. Fate has a way of reminding me of all that Peeta's done for me time and time again. I look upon a familiar sight. I'm even sitting underneath the apple tree.

The warm glow of the bakery spills over the snow, exuding warmth and life. And suddenly I am eleven years old again, starving, on the brink of death, huddled against the rain, defeated. And the kind blonde boy with the purple bruise blooming on his cheek is ripping off chunks of burnt bread to feed the pigs, checking if the coast is clear, and tossing the warm loaves to me. The boy with the bread.

I sit, lost in thought, in memories, huddled against the cold. How did someone as selfish as me end up with someone so selfless as Peeta?

_Move, Katniss,_I tell myself. If I stay here in the cold much longer I'll freeze to death. And Peeta would _not_ be pleased with that.

I stand, shivering. I don't have to fight back new tears because they've already frozen. The bakery pulls me in, calls to me. I walk to the backdoor and turn the knob.

The sight that greets me is a welcome one, even if I feel I don't deserve it. One of the employees, Rex, is baking warm bread in the oven. The younger man smiles at me when he notices I am there.

"Hello, Mrs. Mellark," he greets. I nod at him, but am unable to smile. He frowns, noticing the frozen tear tracks on my face and my red eyes. It's not like the sight of me crying is an unfamiliar one to the people around me. I still think it makes me looks weak if I cry. But they don't. They understand that it's not easy to live with memories like mine. Rex does not comment on my emotional state and doesn't ask questions. That's one of the best things I like about him. He's tactful. Unlike everyone else, who are determined to find out what's wrong with me, Rex just doesn't ask. "Are you hungry, Mrs. Mellark?"

I nod. Rex places a fresh-from-the-oven warm loaf of bread in front of me. I eat in silence. The warm bread does wonders, filling me up, warming me from the inside out. Peeta's recipe. It tastes like home. It's comforting. Like a warm embrace from him. Almost as good as the real thing. Not quite, but almost. It does the job.

"I'll man the register today, Rex," I tell him. He nods in acknowledgement as he pulls more fresh bread from the oven. I throw the still-warm cloth the bread was wrapped in into the hamper for the wash before leaving the back of the store for the front.

There's a few people waiting. The woman and her child that come in every morning to buy half a dozen muffins for their family. The old man and women that buy a loaf of raisin bread every morning to split for breakfast. I give them what they need and engage in small talk. Thom, who grins at me as I hand him a cake.

"It's my daughter's birthday today," he says proudly. I smile at him and congratulate him.

"How old is she?" I ask.

"Two," he says. He's as giddy as a schoolboy and this for some reason stabs me right where I'm hurting. Is this how Peeta would react? No. He'd be even more excited. He'd shout to the rooftops that his little girl is two years old. He'd be proud of everything she did, no matter how insignificant. He'd hang up childish paintings and say they were masterpieces. He'd love any child we had so much. If it weren't for me. "Are you alright, Katniss?"

I realize my smile has become somewhat fixed.

"Oh, yes, sorry," I mutter, dropping his change in the register. "Tell her happy birthday from me," I tell him, smiling again. He returns it and waves as he leaves the bakery.

I close the cash register, alone now with my thoughts. I bury my head in my hands. Shame fills me for the way I treated Peeta this morning. For denying him and not even giving him a rational explanation. I'm not even sure I _have _ a rational explanation. I just know I can't have children. I can't. It's something I've told myself since before I even hit puberty.

But everything has changed from the way I expected things to be when I was a child.

I surprise myself when I hear a sob escape from my own mouth.

"God, Katniss, keep it together," I whisper to myself.

The doorbell tinkles, signaling a customer. I drag my head out of my hands and force on a smile. But it disappears when I see who it is.

It's Peeta.

He looks mildly surprised to see me (it's not really my day to work at the bakery and I'm sure he expected me to run off to the woods after our argument), but recovers quickly.

Peeta's eyes linger on mine for a few moments, and then he goes to the front of the counter and places a few packages that are in his arms on the wooden counter. He avoids my eyes as he sorts them, but I can't look away from him, trying to decipher what he's thinking, trying to decipher what _I'm_ thinking. At last he looks up at me across the counter.

"Hi, Katniss," he says softly. I don't answer, instead looking at him intently. Peeta sighs. "I'm sorry, Katniss."

This surprises me into speech.

"What on earth for?"

He frowns. "For pushing you. I shouldn't have brought it up, I should have guessed how you felt about it. I shouldn't have forced the issue on you."

"No…It's not…I just…" I try to explain myself clumsily. Peeta drops his keys on the counter and comes to stand in front of me, taking my hands in his and kissing them softly before resting them on the counter. I sigh, frowning. I don't deserve his kindness.

"Katniss," he says, gently prodding me to snap out of it. "It's okay, just tell me."

"I'm sorry I ran out on you this morning. I panicked."

He gazes at me steadily, waiting for me to finish.

"It's just…I know you want them but…I've spent my whole life knowing I couldn't risk that."

His eyes fall down to our entwined hands. His brows furrow as he frowns. "I understand," he whispers quietly.

"You do?" I exclaim in relief.

"Of course I do. I don't think there's a single person in the districts who _wouldn't_ understand that fear. Everytime I think about having children I feel it, the anxiety. The fear of the Hunger Games." At the mention of it I suck in a breath and my stomach drops. He places a hand on my cheek to soothe me. "I know, it's okay. Shh, look at me Katniss." I raise my eyes to look into his. He wipes a tear away from my lashes before it has a chance to fall. "But it's different now, Katniss. It is," he says, because I see where he's going with this and I start to shake my head. "They're gone, Katniss. They're _gone_. There's no—"

The bell above the door tinkles, interrupting Peeta. He turns around to welcome the customer but doesn't drop my hand, squeezing it gently and shielding me from view of the customer, giving me a chance to wipe my eyes.

"Good morning! How can we help you today?"

"Two loaves of French bread, please."

I drop Peeta's hand and get the customer what she needs. Peeta moves around behind the counter and places a hand in the small of my back while I wrap the bread up. The customer hands Peeta the money and takes the bread.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asks me empathetically. I look up, surprised.

"Yes, thank you. Have a good day," I say automatically, trying to get rid of her. She gets the hint and leaves, the bell tinkling behind her. Peeta turns to me as soon as she's gone. He brushes my cheeks with his thumb and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"Let's talk about it when we get home, okay?" says Peeta gently. I nod my head. He gives me a soft kiss on the lips. "I love you."

"Love you too, Peeta," I say. He gives me a kiss on the forehead and lets me go. "Go help Rex, I've got the register."

"Are you sure?" he asks. I nod.

The day picks up as it wears on. We're kept busy by a constant stream of customers. This is a good thing, as it keeps me from dwelling. The smell of baking bread churns out of the back all day, making my stomach growl. I barely have five minutes to scarf down some of Peeta's cheese buns before the bell tinkles yet again. It's with relief that I finally switch the "open" sign to "closed" at the end of the day.

Peeta's decorating a cake when I enter the kitchen, eyes furrowed together and focused intently on a creating an elaborate sugared violet. Rex is cleaning up the messy kitchen. He looks over as I enter.

"Are we finally closed?" Rex asks in an exhausted voice. Peeta starts at this and looks up at me, blinking to shake himself out of his creative zone to take notice of me and smile. I nod at Rex's question. He sighs in relief.

"Busy day," I comment.

"The holidays are coming up," Peeta mutters, turning back to his violet. "It'll only get busier."

"Oh, joy," mutters Rex.

"I might have to hire extra help," Peeta says as he finishes off a green leaf. I watch him, fascinated, as he does an elaborate twist of his hands and a tiny beautiful flower appears out of the tube of red. He does this several times over with different colors and then finally steps back, scrutinizing his creation. It's completely beautiful, as usual. I'm always amazed at his creations. "That'll have to do. Rex, can you put this in the fridge?"

Rex does as Peeta says and Peeta scribbles down a note on the clipboard next to the door.

"Thank you for helping out today, Katniss," he says as he turns to me. "We would have been swamped without you."

"My pleasure," I say, and give him a light kiss on the cheek. He smiles slightly and a touch of a blush appears in his cheeks. I don't get this reaction every time I kiss him, but I get it surprisingly often considering. I love it when I do.

We get to work closing up shop and cleaning the place up. I count up the day's profits, Rex finishes cleaning up the kitchen and sweeping the front room, and Peeta sorts out the orders for tomorrow. When Rex is finished cleaning, Peeta dismisses him and Rex lets out a whoop. It's been a long day, especially for such a young kid. Rex is about sixteen and a lot more carefree than we were at his age. Perhaps because he doesn't have to worry about the Hunger Games. Or maybe it's just his nature.

"You ready to go home?" Peeta asks me as soon as he leaves.

"Almost." I put the record book back where it belongs, and lock up the front door and the cash register. "Ready."

Peeta gets his coat out of the closet, but instead of putting it on like I expect he wraps it around my shoulders.

"You forgot your coat this morning," he says with a soft smile. This unexpectedly kind gesture touches me and it hits me once again how kind Peeta is and how much I don't deserve him.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He pulls out a spare jacket for himself that is light, designed for fall weather and not this heavy winter snow. I pull him close as soon as we step into the cold to keep him as warm as possible. We hurry to the Victor's Village, but by the time we get into the house he's shivering and his teeth are chattering. I hurriedly start a fire and put him in a chair close to it, taking off the freezing cold jacket and wrapping a warm blanket around his shoulders. I take off Peeta's coat and toss it in a chair before kneeling in front of him and taking off his boots and socks, which are soaked with the snow. The prosthetic leg is like ice and I take it off him and set it within his reach before wrapping his freezing foot up in another blanket.

"Always taking care of me," he says. I look up to see him smiling slightly and his eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Well you take care of me," I mutter, looking away from him. I sit down in a chair next to him and take off my own socks and shoes before setting them and Peeta's close to the fire to dry. "What sounds good for supper? Soup?"

"Sounds delicious," says Peeta.

"You stay there and warm up. Supper's on me tonight."

He smiles softly, and looks up at me with that _look_ on his face, that look that is always reserved for only me.

"Thank you, Katniss."

**A/N: **_Well, basically, I wrote this a while ago and thought I might as well post it. When I first wrote this, I was going to group these together in some semblance of a plot, but basically screw it. I wrote this so long ago that I'm not going to bother anymore. I think the 'drabbles' can stand on their own as angsty/sweet/cute/sexy little moments, so I'm just going to chunk out what I've got written and post them. _

_Please please PLEASE review! I'm mainly posting this for reviews! I __desperately _ _could use some reviews! It __will__ help in posting new stories/updating older ones! _

_This story will be updated once a week, since I've already got everything written. I'm thinking every Thursday or every Friday. What do you guys think? _

_Make sure to leave a review! Writers thrive off of feedback! Especially writers who have been in a pretty terrible slump recently! _

_3_

_~gfg_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **_Hello, my dear readers! This is chapter two! And, warning! This story is rated M for a reason! Basically, this chapter. _

I swore I'd never have children. Never ever. And this would hold true to this day, if it weren't for one thing. One person.

Peeta.

If it weren't Peeta, who has been so patient with me. He deserves happiness. He says I make him happy. But I know that's not enough. The house starts to feel empty, even though it's just as full as it always was. And the longing in Peeta's eyes is wearing me down. My steadfast resolution, my fear, that I have had since as long as I can remember. It's dying. Because Peeta wants to bring a new life into the world.

And I feel like a horrible person for denying him that.

He'd be such a great father. And he chose me. He chose to stay with me. I'm the one he wants children with. I'm the one he married. If he's going to have kids, it's not going to be with anyone but me. He has not spoken of it for a long time, but there's little comments, here and there. Dropped accidently. And I see the nervous glance at me when he realizes what he's said. And I ignore them. I try my hardest to forget about it like I used to. But I can't. I dwell on it.

Little things. Like how I can just see a little boy trailing after Peeta while he bakes, a touch of flour on his cheek and sneaking cookies when Peeta's not looking. Like how I can imagine what it would feel like to teach a little girl to hunt with me in the woods like my father used to do with me. How I can see them painting with Peeta and singing with me. How they'd be parts of us both.

And eventually it's all I can think about. It's like a fire that consumes my mind. I understand Peeta's longing now. And when it's brought up again, it's not Peeta that mentions it. It's me.

"Okay," I finally say one day. I'm watching Peeta bake and he stops stirring. He looks up at me, confused. Because of course he has no idea what I'm talking about.

"What?" he says. I close my eyes tightly, my heart starts to beat frantically. I can feel that fear that's as old as life itself. Peeta senses something's wrong, and he abandons his baking, comes around the counter to stand in front of me. He takes my hands in both of his. "What's wrong, Katniss?"

I take a deep breath, and I look up into his eyes. It's that that does the trick.

"Let's have a baby," I blurt out.

It doesn't register at first, what I've said. When it hits him he freezes, blinks several times, his mouth forms a small _o_.

"What?" he says again. He seems slightly short of breath.

Repeating myself is a lot more difficult. I gulp, grip his hands a bit more tightly, lock my gaze with his.

"I want to have a baby, Peeta," I say.

His eyes go wide, he lets go of one hand and grips the counter, his knuckles going white. The color drains from his face. He gasps for air. His eyes cloud over and I worry I've sent him into some terrible altered memory. _The Quell,_ I remember. When Peeta lied about me being pregnant. Oh, shit. I forgot about that.

But Peeta has gotten so much better about his flashbacks. He blinks several times, his eyes clear and his grip on the counter loosens.

"You…you want to have a baby. Real or not real?" he says when he's regained control of his voice.

"Real."

Slowly the color comes back, a smile creeps onto his face. And before I know it he's grinning broadly, his arms are around me, the chairs get knocked out from under me and he's lifted me up into the air, twirling me around and around and peppering me with kisses and laughing.

I've never seen him so happy. If there were any lingering doubts, his smile has swept them all away. Because all I've wanted for a long time is to make Peeta happy.

"Then let's make a baby," he says, his grin so bright it's more dazzling than the sun.

Peeta hooks me under the knees, hoists me up like I'm nothing more than a bag of flour. I wrap my arms tightly around his shoulders while he kisses me fiercely. Vaguely I'm aware that he's carrying me up the stairs and into the bedroom. I feel a touch of that old fear but sheer longing overwhelms it.

I moan as he lays me gently on the bed, his hands touching me in familiar places, his lips kissing me through his giddy grin. His hands shake with anticipation and impatience as he pulls my shirt over my head and unbuckles my belt, unzips my pants, inches them down over my hips. It seems he cannot touch me enough, cannot get close enough. I feel that hunger overtake me and it seems _I _cannot get close enough either. I rip off his shirt at the same time he undoes his pants and drops them to the floor. He kicks them off and we shimmy back onto the bed, kissing hungrily.

"I love you, Katniss…" whispers Peeta over and over again. "Thank you…thank you, Katniss…I love you so much…"

Peeta removes my bra with one swift movement, and kisses his way down my stomach, removes my underwear and touches me with a practiced hand. I cry out and stiffen, nearly blacking out when I feel that first sweet release. His lips on mine bring me back and he kisses me gently when I again open my eyes. I sit up, pulling him up with me and pulling down his undershorts. I place my lips over his flesh once before he moans, and lowers himself back down over me. He runs a gentle hand down my thigh, pulls it around his waist. He slows down to a pause.

"Before we go any further I have to know if you're sure," he says, his breathing heavy and ragged.

I must have hesitated before I nodded because he grasps my face in his free hand, searching my eyes with a penetrating gaze.

"Katniss. Are you sure?"

"Yes," I answer, a bit more quickly this time.

"You want to have a baby?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation.

There's a moment. Peeta's eyes flick between each of mine, searching for the truth. I'm terrified he'll stop because if he does I'll rethink this and start agonizing over every pro and con and he won't want to try again because he won't do anything with such drastic consequences that I'm not sure of. And right now I'm about ninety percent sure I want this.

"I'm just scared, Peeta," I whisper, thinking that if we're going to do this we have to at least be honest. "Scared. I'm afraid. _So afraid._ I've always had that fear. Since I was old enough to think about having kids and I swore I wouldn't because I didn't want their names drawn."

Slowly and methodically Peeta sweeps the hair away from my face. He kisses me once, very tenderly. Like he did in the arena before we were going to eat the berries.

"I know," he says softly. "I have that fear too, Katniss. I always have. But we fought…we fought so they would be safe. There are no more Hunger Games, Katniss. They will be safe from that. I promise."

"But say there were…say it could happen—"

"Shhh," he says soothingly, touching his fingers to my lips to stop me fretting. "It won't. Everything will be alright. It will be okay. We'll take care of them, Katniss. We'll protect them. We'll give them the happiest life we can give them. We'll spoil them rotten and give them everything we never had. We'll love them more than anything in the world. And they will make us so, so happy Katniss. You have to trust me on that."

"I trust you," I breathe. "But I'm still afraid."

"I know," he whispers. "I know. I am too. But I know how happy this will make us, too. The fear will go away. I promise, because there's nothing to be afraid of."

He has eased my fear, but only slightly.

"Now I have to ask you again," he says. "_Are you sure?_"

"No," I answer quietly. His face falls and I feel guilty. "No, I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all if I'm doing the right thing. But I'm sure want this. I want to have a baby. I want it because it will make you happy."

"Don't do this just for me," says Peeta, frowning. "I'll be happy with whatever you decide."

"I want a baby," I say. "I want one because I will love him or her. Because I can see them in my mind and I can't get them out of my head. Because they'll be half you and half me. I want a baby, Peeta, for both of us. We need something more. I know you say I make you happy, but it's not enough. I want to make you happy, and that smile on your face when I said _yes_ makes me sure."

"Don't do this for—" he starts again. But I silence him with a kiss.

"_Everything_ I do is for you, Peeta," I say. Peeta looks touched by this statement. "Everything. If it wasn't nothing would ever get done. I'd still be sitting in my living room wearing the clothes I left the Capitol in."

I smile at him reassuringly. I'm rewarded with a soft smile.

"Okay, Katniss," he says. Hm. Funny. I didn't think I'd have to convince _him_.

He begins to kiss me again, and I can feel that steadiness that Peeta brings to everything as the former intensity builds until we're both ready again. He kisses me passionately, slips himself inside of me when I'm not expecting it, and I gasp and moan in pleasure. He breaks the kiss and cradles my head, taking it slow and gentle before slowly speeding up to where I want it. My muscles tense, starting first in my abdomen, to my extremities and back. My hands grip the bedsheets tightly. His hand curls over mine and we grip each other tightly, keeping our gazes and our bodies locked together in every possible way. Peeta starts to gasp out my name and his falls from my lips. It's so intense and I forget everything except this feeling and Peeta, his eyes, the feel of him in me and around me. The pressure builds and I try to remember to breathe, to relax, to wait, wait . . . until Peeta smashes his lips over mine and I let myself go.

I think I cry out. I think I grip Peeta so tightly I'm probably hurting him. I think I arch my back and press him into me as hard as I can. I think I feel his hot breath on my cheek. I think I feel his hands gripping me tightly. But it's hard to be sure because it feels like I'm floating. Floating a few feet above my body. And I can't feel anything but _that feeling_. That intense pleasure that's unlike anything else in the world. Wave after wave hits me and I feel myself clenching around him and that hot liquid from _him _heats me from the inside out.

Slowly I come back down to my own body. Slowly thoughts come back into my brain and I'm able to register panting and sweaty hot bodies pressed together and hammering hearts. A few more thrusts before Peeta collapses on top of me, shaking and panting. I wrap my arms around his bare shoulders and bury my hands in his hair. His head comes to rest under my chin, his ear over my heart, and I cradle it, my hands in his hair and caressing his face and ear and neck and feeling his hot breath on my arm.

Our breathing and heart rates gradually returns to normal, and we're able to regain control of our muscle functions. Peeta looks up at me, smiles that lazy smile that is saved purely for right after sex. I return it with one of my own. He kisses me sweetly, then gently detangles himself from me and rolls over on his back to my side. He kisses my shoulder and I roll over, curl up next to him and rest my head on his chest while his arm automatically goes around me. Peeta plants a light kiss on my hair and I return one on his chest. He twirls a strand of my hair around his fingers and watches me.

I start to drift off into sleep but before I lose consciousness entirely I hear Peeta say one last thing.

"You're going to be such a great mother, Katniss."


	3. Chapter 3

I don't get pregnant right away. Like anything worth doing, it takes some hard work and effort. It takes several more tries, several phone calls to my mother (who actually knows what she's doing. She was thrilled the first phone call when I told her we're trying to get pregnant), a special package of hormone pills from the Capitol, and a carefully drawn out schedule of the best times to conceive.

"We haven't had this much sex since we were teenagers," jokes Peeta one day after doing just that. Not that either of us mind.

At last, after several weeks, tantrums, tears, doubts, fear, and yes, sex, I miss my period.

The moment I realize I've missed it that old fear grips me tightly. Instantly I'm swallowed with regret and remorse, because there's no going back now. Not if I really am pregnant.

So I take the test, and Peeta and I sit in the bathroom on the edge of the tub, staring at that white stick, waiting for the plus or minus to appear. I'm terrified it will be positive and at the same time scared of the disappointment of it being negative. Peeta holds my hand, looking just as scared as I feel. Occasionally he'll bring my fingers to his lips, but neither of us speak. I couldn't form words now if I tried.

At long last the timer buzzes, and we both jump at the loud sound in the quiet bathroom. My hand slips from Peeta's as I stand and turn the thing off. I stare at the little white stick like it's a mutt that's going to bite me.

"P-Peeta," I choke out. Even though I have not formed a complete sentence he understands. He stands and walks to where the white stick rests on the counter, limping slightly. He picks it up and looks at it. I watch his face anxiously for any hint of what it says. But his face is mysteriously and frustratingly blank. "Peeta?"

"Positive," he says quietly. My heart clenches with a strange mix of fear and joy. He looks up at me. And I know he doesn't quite know what to make of this, either. "It's positive. You're pregnant," he says numbly.

"Well, that's…good," I manage to say.

Peeta looks back down at the stick, as if to double-check.

"You're pregnant," he says again, as if he keeps saying this than it will sink in. "We're going to have a baby."

I reach out and angle the stick in his hand so I can see it. Sure enough, there's a tiny little plus sign that changes everything.

"I'm pregnant," I repeat.

Peeta drops the stick to his side, and looks me up and down, his eyes coming to rest on my stomach. Hesitantly he places a hand there.

"You're pregnant," he whispers. And that's when it hits me.

"Oh my God," I gasp, suddenly feeling light-headed. I grasp at Peeta for support. "Oh my God I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant, Peeta, oh God I'm _pregnant_…"

He looks back up at me in confusion like he can't quite comprehend the fear in my voice.

"What were we _thinking_, Peeta?" I cry, and the tears burst forth like a dam breaking. Because I'm pregnant. I'm fucking _pregnant_.

Peeta grasps my arms tightly, looking at me with concern. Because now he knows that I regret it. That it was such a stupid, _stupid_ thing to do. I had a moment of weakness and now I've done something unforgivable. I've gone and done something I swore I never would. I'm such a terrible, terrible person because who the _hell_ do I think I am, bringing life into this sick, sick world? This despicable world where my baby might only live to be twelve years old, might be forced to fight to the death…will have to suffer and starve and struggle to survive…

"Katniss, Katniss…" vaguely I'm aware that Peeta's saying my name, that he's shaking me. I can't even breathe for fear and regret. I'm shaking. The hands that blindly clutch at Peeta's shirt are trembling and feel like they belong to someone else. I do not deserve Peeta's hands touching me, brushing my hair back, his lips comforting me. Because I'm the worst mother in the world already. For one, I'm going to be one in the first place and for two what kind of mother cries in fear and regret when she learns she's pregnant?

"I'm such an _idiot_, Peeta!" I sob. "I'm so stupid! I had a moment of weakness and now our child will have to suffer for my stupidity!"

"Katniss," says Peeta, wiping away my tears, looking like he honestly has no clue what to do. "Katniss, it will be okay. It will be okay, Katniss, I promise."

His arms wrap around me, and I bury my nose in his chest, sobbing profusely. He cradles my head, makes soft shushing sounds.

"It's going to be okay, Katniss. Remember? There are no more Hunger Games. There's no more hunger. No more fear. No more danger. The world is a better place. A safer place. We're safe. Our baby will be safe. Remember, Katniss? Our baby is safe."

"Safe," I repeat shakily, like I don't know the meaning of the word.

"Safe and sound," whispers Peeta, kissing me on my hair and pressing me to his chest. It does little to soothe me. "No one can hurt us now, Katniss. We're safe."

I'm about to continue crying but then a miracle happens. Just like when I was in solitary confinement in my room after I shot Coin, just when I'd given up a0ll hope, was perfectly ready to die, I save myself.

I start to sing.

Shakily at first, quietly, my voice muffled in Peeta's chest, more just saying the words then singing them, but then my voice grows in confidence and volume, expands into the room, swallows me whole until it's the only thing I hear.

"_I remember tears streaming down your face  
When I said, I'll never let you go  
When all those shadows almost killed your light  
I remember you said, Don't leave me here alone  
But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight_

"Just close your eyes  
The sun is going down  
You'll be alright  
No one can hurt you now  
Come morning light  
You and I'll be safe and sound

"_Don't you dare look out your window darling_

_Everything's on fire_

_The war outside our door keeps raging on_

_Hold onto this lullaby_

_Even when the music's gone_

"_Just close your eyes_

_The sun is going down_

_You'll be alright_

_No one can hurt you now_

_Come morning light_

_You and I'll be safe and sound_

"_Just close your eyes  
You'll be alright  
Come morning light,  
You and I'll be safe and sound."_

As my voice fades, I realize it really _is_ the only thing I hear, because the birds outside the open window have fallen silent. And so has Peeta. I raise my head from his chest and look at him. His eyes are full of wonder and a strange happiness.

And then the mockingjays take up my song.

Peeta and I just look at each other and listen. He has a small smile on his face and he caresses my cheek with his fingers. As the music reaches its crescendo he leans down and his lips meet mine in a gentle, loving, yet passionate kiss. When the song is over and the birds fall back into their usual twittering, with a few of them continuing my tune here and there, we break apart.

"You never cease to amaze me, Katniss," says Peeta, smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm out of bed faster than I previously thought possibly, dashing into the bathroom and throwing the toilet seat up before puking out my guts.

I look down at the toilet in disgust before flushing the mess away.

And then I puke again.

"Dammit!" I curse when I've flushed it away again. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and groan. I cling to the toilet seat, shaking. Because I can feel I'm not done yet. "For God's sake all I ate was some _bread_." I tell my stomach. In answer it decides to upchuck said bread.

Then I feel the light touch of fingers on my neck, pulling my hair out of my face and out of puking range. Oh no. I've woken Peeta up. I hadn't meant to do that. But he doesn't seem to mind. He just holds my hair back and waits for me to finish. When my stomach has finally decided to give me a breather I flush and sit back, and Peeta rubs my back. He's there waiting for me with a glass of water and a wet washcloth. I take the water and swish the taste out of my mouth, spitting it in the toilet and wiping myself clean with the washcloth.

Peeta brushes my hair out of my sweaty face. I close my eyes at his touch and try to settle my stomach. His gentle hands on my arm and my back, his warmth, the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything, helps. When at last my stomach stops stirring I lean into Peeta, groaning. He wraps his arm around me and gives my hair a light kiss.

"I love you," he says quietly.

"Uggh," is all I say in response. "I don't know how you managed to talk me into getting pregnant."

"It was your idea," he reminds me. I groan.

"That's not helping, Peeta," I say irritably.

"And besides, I didn't _talk _you into getting pregnant, it was more like _f—"_

"Not helping!" I snap. Peeta chuckles.

Feeling like my stomach has finished hating me for the moment, I disentangle myself from Peeta and weakly stand to go to the sink and brush my teeth. Peeta follows me with his hands slightly out towards me like afraid I might faint.

"I swear to _God_ Peeta if you treat me like a delicate little flower for the next nine-ish months I'm going to hurt you."

He immediately drops his hands.

Good. I haven't lost my touch.

Peeta's quiet, leaning against the counter, until I finish brushing my teeth. It's clear he's thinking up some sort of strategy. Oh, God. Shoot me now.

"Katniss," he says as I place my toothbrush back in the holder. Praying to whatever gods are out there for patience, I turn to him. "I think we're going to have to set up some rules, though."

"Rules?" I growl. Unfortunately, my growl no longer scares him.

"I've been talking to your mother," he says.

"Oh, fuck," I say, slapping my hands over my face almost comically, though I'm filled with dread. Peeta doesn't grin. Yup. I'm in trouble.

"She says you should go easy," says Peeta.

"No shit," I mutter.

"And that you shouldn't overexert yourself."

"_Really?"_ I gasp. Peeta ignores me.

"And that you should rest."

"I did not know that," I say sarcastically.

" . . . which means no hunting."

"No!" I shout, banging my fists on the counter, now dead serious and very angry. "That's not going to work!"

"I told her you wouldn't take that well," he says grimly.

"Well, did you tell her you knew I wasn't going to listen to a word you say? Because that's me. Right now. In fact, I think I'll go hunting now."

And indeed I walk out the bathroom door into our bedroom, fully intending to dress in hunting clothes, grab my bow and hunting gear, and disappear into the woods for a couple of hours.

Peeta's right behind me though, grabbing my arm and turning me around to face him.

"Katniss, I'm on your side. But I don't want to endanger our baby by you traipsing around the woods where there's wild dogs and bears . . . and tracker jackers and . . . and . . ."

"Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!" I gasp, making up the rest of his sentence in the most sarcastic, insulting way I can think of. I've been hanging around Johanna too much. I shake him off. But Peeta's a lot more stubborn than that and my arm is firmly back in his grasp again before I can make it to the dresser, turning me around, my nose an inch from his.

"Katniss, this is serious," he says. My insides squirm with something akin to guilt for my flippant attitude. "What if something happens? What if you're out there all alone and—"

"Peeta, please. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he says placatingly. Then he sighs, slides his hand down my arm to take my hand in his, lowers his eyes. "I'm just afraid," he admits.

Damn Peeta and his cleverness with words! He's stuck exactly the chord he needs to get his way.

"Are you just saying that to keep me from going into the woods?" I ask. He looks back up at me, and I can tell by looking into his eyes he's not lying. He really is afraid. "Oh, Peeta," I whisper, and reach up to wrap my arms around his shoulders, burying my nose in his neck. His arms go around my waist and he clings to me tightly.

"I'm scared, Katniss. I've never felt this kind of fear before. It's nerve-wracking. The baby's only a few weeks old and so delicate and fragile . . . it seems like the slightest thing could take it away from me. From us. I just want to protect our baby."

I tighten my arms around Peeta and give him light kisses on his neck. I can feel his heart thumping faster in his chest from this fear that dogs him. Both of us.

"Babies are a lot tougher than they seem, Peeta," I say soothingly.

"That doesn't mean we should risk it," he says, and pulls me back to look in my eyes. He's so worried.

"I'll protect our baby, Peeta," I say, placing my temple against his. "You know I'd never let anything happen to it."

"I know," he whispers.

"It's okay to go in the woods now, Peeta. I won't have to really rest until around five or six months. And when I start to really show is when I don't think it'll be a good idea to go in the woods anymore to hunt, because I'll be easily tired by then. And you're right about the danger. But for now I still have the strength to climb trees if a pack of wild dogs come."

I know I've eased his fears a bit, but not entirely.

"I'll take it easy, Peeta, I promise."

"And what about tracker jackers?" he says after a few moments of silent, fearful contemplation.

"You couldn't get me near one of those things with a twenty foot pole," I say, trying to make light. But I know what a sensitive subject tracker jackers are to Peeta. That the name alone is enough to terrify him. Even wasps and bees will make him nervous. "There's not a lot around here anymore, Peeta. I know where they are in the woods and I won't go anywhere near those areas."

Peeta closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Then he does something I don't expect. He drops carefully to his knees, and places his hands over my stomach. We're both still for a moment, and my heart is racing from the tender contact. Then he leans forwards, gives my stomach a gentle kiss and rests his head against it. My hands go to his hair and his arms wrap around my waist.

"Our baby will be safe with me, Peeta," I say quietly after a long moment. "I'd never do anything to put it in harm's way."

"I know you wouldn't," he says into my stomach. I run my hand through his hair. He closes his eyes and I slowly sink to join him on my knees. I wrap my arms around his neck. He holds onto me tightly. "I know."

In the end, I find my way to the woods, where we both know I never could have stayed out of. It was where I belonged.


	5. Chapter 5

It's been a while since I've been here, sat in this spot. But it's just where I ended up. After this morning, Peeta was worried about me going tramping off in the woods but I told him if he gets this worked up about something as trivial as morning sickness I'm going to kill him. I just needed some time in the woods to think, to calm the fear that has been in my chest since I found out I'm pregnant.

I stretch my legs out on the shelf of rock. It seems too empty with just me and my bow and my empty game bag. This shelf has almost always been occupied by another person. I've only been here twice since I came back to District 12. The memories were too painful. The emptiness was too painful. Sitting on this shelf of rock only made me think of one person and that person made me think of another. The hole in my heart where she used to be will never be filled. And neither will the spot where he was . . . is . . . whatever he is to me.

I readjust the cup of mint tea in my hands. It's long since cooled, but the mint helps settle my stomach, and it's not bad cold. Without really thinking about it my free hand goes to my stomach over the spot where our baby is. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the incline of the rock. Maybe Peeta was right about this excursion into the woods. I'm exhausted. If I get attacked by wild dogs right now I don't know if I'd have the strength to climb a tree.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I stiffen in alarm, almost immediately going into arena-mode. A stick snaps somewhere in front of me. Thinking of wild dogs I dive for my bow and am already on my feet when I look up. It's not wild dogs. No, I'm not that lucky. It's a person, materializing out of the woods soundlessly as only he can. He snapped the stick on purpose to alert me to his presence, and it has stopped me dead. It's like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. Fifteen years. That's all I can think. It's been _fifteen years. _And I can't think of a single thing to say.

But my mouth apparently can.

"You have one _hell_ of a screwed up sense of timing," I say, sounding a lot more put-together than I feel. This makes him grin nervously, though I'm sure he's taking that as it's been fifteen years and not that he's managed to show up right as I get pregnant with Peeta's child.

"Hey, Catnip," says none other than the one and only Gale Hawthorne.

"What are you doing here?" I demand of him. This was apparently not what he was thinking I'd say, because it seems to throw him for a loop and he starts to stumble through his words.

"I, um, I. . .I got orders —I, er, came home to er, uh—I got a—" he can't seem to get his words out properly and it's clear he's rehearsed some sort of speech but forgotten it. I look at him, drinking in his appearance. He's still Gale, older, more worn down, but well-fed and strong. He's wearing a grey military suit of the sort I'd see in District 13, but it is not neat and tidy like I would expect a solider to have his uniform. His shirt is untucked, his jacket unbuttoned. There's a tear in the leg of his pants and mud on his unshined boots. None of his clothes are clean. Streaks of silver have started to appear in his dark hair and unshaven cheeks and he looks almost haggard. He's also quite pale, like he's spent a lot of time underground. His bow is strung over his shoulder. When he catches me looking at him he sighs, and gives up all pretense of pathetic excuses. We both know the real reason he's come back. He wouldn't be in the woods, in this spot, our spot, for any other reason. "I came here to see you."

"You better not have got your hopes up," my mouth says for me, and we both wince. That came out a lot more direct than it should have, and much too early in the conversation. "I'm sorry," I say. Now I'm fumbling as much as he is. "I didn't mean—I just—I'm sorry. Uh . . . I'm not myself today. Forget I said that."

Gale digs the toe of his boot into the ground, and his hands go behind his back. He can't seem to tear his eyes away from me, though, as much as he'd probably like to. Gale is not one much for direct eye contact. Or rather, he wasn't. I realize any number of things about Gale could have changed over the years, and more than just his hair color and his clothes. And suddenly I wonder if he's done the same thing I've done, and started a family. Does he have a wife, children? Is he happy? Is he healthy? Why is he here _now_, of all times to show up? Why did he wait _fifteen years?_

"How are you?" I ask him.

Gale shifts his weight, bites his lip nervously, takes in my appearance. I try to stand up a bit straighter and not look so tired.

"I—I'm fine. Been better," he says haltingly. What does that mean? He's fine? Been better? Better than when? Before the Games or before some unexplained event that's happened in the past fifteen years? And why just _fine?_ Is he sick? Depressed? In pain? Is he— "I got a job, in District 2."

"I know," I answer. "Greasy Sae told me."

"Oh," he says. I grapple around desperately for something to say.

"What do you do?" I ask. Greasy Sae never said what his job entailed. _'Got some fancy job up in Two.' _That's all she said on the subject.

"Oh, it's, um, for the military. Cleaning up the mountain base—the Nut."

The Nut was the mountain that contained the Peacekeeper stronghold. It was the last thing to conquer before the rebels could take the Capitol. It wasn't exactly destroyed after we were done with it, but it wasn't exactly livable, either. It was Gale's idea to collapse avalanches over the entrances, and he wanted to trap them inside completely but I wouldn't let them die such a horrible death, trapped inside the mountain like my father in the mines—and Gale's father.

It's good he's at least trying to make up for at least some of the damage he caused.

_Prim._

And suddenly I can't stand the sight of Gale.

"Why are you here?" I snap. It's hard to keep the biting note of accusation out of my voice. Gale starts at the abrupt change in the tone of my voice. Immediately he looks guilty and I know his mind has gone to the same place mine has. Apparently not everything has changed. We know each other too well. We think too much alike.

"Look, Katniss, I—I—I didn't mean to—I don't know what I was thinking, coming here. I just feel like I have to set things right. And I screwed up the most with you." He takes a step forward, looking at me with pleading eyes. I take a step back but the back of my knees collide with the shelf of rock. "Catnip, I'm sorry. I am. I'm so, so sorry. About everything. About Prim. I'm so sorry about Prim."

I note the sheen to his eyes, the slight break in his voice. He looks so guilty and sad and almost as broken as me as he talks about my sister. Has the guilt of inventing the bomb that caused Prim's death haunted him that much? I'd like to think so. Some more sinister part of me hopes he's suffered as much as I have for the death of my sister. Then I almost immediately feel guilty for thinking this. I shouldn't wish my misery upon anyone.

"I am too," I say quietly. Gale looks slightly surprised. But he knows it will take more than _sorry_ for me to forgive him.

But then, he did come all this way, didn't he? Gale wants to make things right. He wants to make things right with me. Did he come just to apologize, to settle the unfinished business between us or is he hoping for more?

As I contemplate asking him this, he doesn't speak. Is he waiting for me to tell him to go away? That his trip was a wasted one? That—

Oh god _dammit._

The bile rises in my throat and I barely have enough time to make a mad dash to the bushes. And almost as soon as my knees hit the ground Gale's behind me, holding my hair almost exactly like Peeta did, but with a lot less romantic touches. It's obvious he still cares about me and this was instinctual, but he's most likely afraid of doing anything more. I have a strong urge to throw him off but it's kind of hard when I'm too preoccupied puking my guts out. Talk about timing.

He lets go of my hair when my stomach finally finishes with me and I sit back. He's perched on his toes in a crouching position, looking at me with concern.

"Are you alright, Katniss?" he asks. I can tell he's genuinely worried. And of course it makes me angry.

"I'm fine," I snap, wiping my mouth on my sleeve and spitting into the bushes. How very ladylike of me. "It's just morning sickness."

My stupid big blabbermouth. Will I ever learn to just keep my trap shut? Nobody knows I'm pregnant except me and Peeta. And now Gale. Great. Not the person I had in mind to tell first. I was actually going to tell my mother first, then Haymitch. Gale wasn't even anywhere on the list.

Gale looks shocked. He freezes, his jaw clenched tightly shut. What is going on in that head of his?

"Morning sickness," he repeats numbly. "You're pregnant."

It's not a question. More of a statement of fact. Completely devoid of emotion. _What_ is Gale thinking?

"Yes," I answer him anyway. His eyes flick from my face to my stomach and back again.

"Congratulations," he states stiffly. Gale has one hell of a poker face. But I know him too well. I can tell by the slight twitch in his cheek, his tensed posture, his white knuckles. This information has affected him. "Who's the lucky father?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady. Is he jealous? Angry or upset or disappointed or sad or _what?_

"Peeta," I answer.

"Should've known," he says. He stands and turns his back to me, his arms clamped tightly over his chest.

I feel the strong urge to apologize. But I have nothing to apologize for. Gale lost any slim chance he had left with me when Prim died. And then moving to Two and not speaking to me for fifteen years didn't help his chances. Did he expect me to put my life on hold and wait for him to come around? No. He's smart enough to know I wouldn't do that. He also didn't come back. And Peeta did. Did Gale know Peeta came back? Surely he must have. If he did then he as good as let him have me. What was that he said to Peeta, years ago in the Capitol?

_She'll pick whoever she can't survive without._

Did he know I'd pick Peeta?

And I wonder . . . I begin to wonder if the Capitol had won and the rebellion failed would I have picked Gale? Or Peeta? Or would I have remained single the rest of my life? If there was no hope for a better future would I have picked him? If Prim hadn't died—

_No,_ I tell myself firmly. _Don't think like that. No what-if's._ Dr. Aurelius said the what-if's will drive you more crazy than anything else can. It's better to dwell in the present than what could have been.

Besides, if the rebellion had failed, we'd probably all have been executed anyway.

"I thought you didn't want to have any kids," says Gale. Of all things I expected him to say, that was not it.

"Things change," I say, trying my best to quell the old fear at his words. "People change. The world's changed."

"I know," he says without turning around.

"Have you changed?" I ask, my mouth speaking without my consent again.

Gale turns around and looks at me. His eyes are full of a pain I don't understand.

"I did," he says quietly. "But not anymore. Never again."

Well, talk about your cryptic responses. I think that one takes the cake.

"What?" I say, completely baffled. Gale sighs. His shoulders slump and he turns away from me again. He turns over a small rock with his toe.

"They're dead," he says, his voice breaking.

"Who?" Could this conversation have taken on an any more confusing turn?

"My wife. My kids. They died in a fire. I was too late to save them."

I gasp. My hands go to my belly. Is my first response pity for Gale? No, of course not. I'm too selfish for that. My first emotion is fear for the fate of my unborn child. What if that happens to me? There are other dangers in the world besides the Games, and I was a fool not to think of that. Then I remember Gale and pity and guilt swallows me. While I've been contemplating whether or not he was after something romantic with me, he's been mourning his family. God, I'm an idiot.

"Oh, Gale," I say, and before I can rethink it I'm back on my feet and my arms are wrapped around him in a friendly, familiar gesture. How many times has it been we have hugged, touched, shared our secrets in this very spot? Too many and too long ago to count. "I'm so sorry."

He seems stunned by my hug and it takes a while for him to respond. When he gets over his shock his arms hesitantly go around my waist and his cheek rests against my hair. Though his body has changed and so has he, he is still Gale, and he is still familiar to me, even after all this time. And I realize just how much I have missed him. Forget romantic. He's my friend. He was my best friend and I snubbed him for something that wasn't even really his fault. He didn't drop that bomb on Prim.

"It wasn't your fault," I say into his chest. Though I can never give him back his family, I can at least alleviate some of his guilt. I can at least set some things right. "What happened to Prim. It wasn't your fault."

His arms tighten around me.

"Yes, it was," he says quietly. I can hear the tears in his voice and I feel one hit my hair. Gale's not one much for crying so I know just how much he is hurting right now. "But I appreciate you saying that, Katniss. I really do."

"I shouldn't have blamed you," I say, clinging to him a bit tighter, unwilling to let him go, because I can feel him wanting to pull away. And if I let him go he'll disappear back into the woods without a sound and I'll never see him again. I know because I would do the same thing if I were in his shoes. "I don't blame you. Not anymore. It wasn't your fault. You didn't press the button. You didn't give the order. Coin did. It was Coin's fault, not yours."

"Okay, Catnip," says Gale, though I can tell he doesn't believe me. He's just humoring me. Trying to dissuade him is going to get me nowhere. He's had fifteen years to drill it into his head that it was his fault and nothing I can say can change that. I know how that is. I still blame myself for Rue's death even though there was no way I could have saved her.

"I'm so sorry about your family," I say softly and sincerely. And then he really does pull away, avoiding my eyes. I still cling to his forearms and he lets me, but he can no longer continue to hold me. Nor can he even look at me. His eyes are very red and the shiny streaks of tears on his cheeks are clearly visible.

I give him a few moments to let him recover. When at last he moves again his eyes go to the bow slung over my shoulder, then to my empty game bag lying on the shelf of rock. And for a moment I catch a glimpse of the old Gale, the _very _old Gale, before the Games.

"Your game bag is conspicuously empty. Have you been letting your skills slide?" he asks, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Looks like you could use some assistance." And in spite of it all I grin.

"I've been missing my hunting partner," I answer. This brings the tiniest hint of a smile to his face.

And for the first time in nearly sixteen years Gale and I go hunting together.


	6. Chapter 6

We still work wonderfully well together as a team. We laugh, we joke. We move silently through the woods as we stalk our prey. We kill two turkeys, three squirrels, a few rabbits. And it's almost as if things between us are back to normal. Or as normal as it can be given everything that's happened. And here, deep in the woods of District 12, our problems are forgotten. It's as if we're sixteen again and our biggest worry is to keep from starving. It's wonderfully simple and familiar. It's not until we reach the gate into town, loaded down with game, that we remember everything's changed.

Gale freezes, stops dead in his tracks in the gate before the meadow. I wonder if he knows it's a graveyard now. You won't know by looking at it that half of what used to be District 12 is buried underneath the dandelions and grass. All those people, whose deaths I am responsible for. All those people who Gale couldn't save. _That _I can't blame him for. The sole responsibility for the destruction of 12 lies on my shoulders.

"Did you come back to stay?" I ask him.

"Maybe for a little while," he says quietly. "But I don't know if I can face it."

"How did you get here?"

"I came by train. But I went straight into the woods."

"You haven't seen Rory, Vick, Posy and Hazelle yet?" I ask.

"No," he says, his face hard.

"Have you seen them at all over the past fifteen years?" I say, slightly shocked.

"They visited for my . . . for my wedding and when . . . when my kids were born," he says, struggling to get out every word. "And we talk over the phone and send letters. But they don't know I'm here. They don't know my family's . . ." he trails off.

"They'll be happy to see you," I say. "They don't say it to me, but I know they miss you."

"I know," he says, his hands tightening around the game bag slung over his shoulder. He volunteered to carry it given my condition and I let him. He doesn't say anything more on the subject of his family, but he still seems reluctant to go past the gates.

"It's best to just get it over with," I say. He nods grimly, and finally moves his feet. We go through the gates and head towards town to make our trades. As we walk, I prep him for what he's about to see. "Things have gotten better. We've rebuilt most of everything and the mines have closed for good. We make medicines now, but I'm sure you already knew that. Things will never be the same, but it'll get better. The Hob's gone, but where it was there's now an open market. With stalls and everything. Nearly everyone shops there now. Twelve is a much better place to live now. No one goes hungry."

He smiles a bit as I jabber on, but he doesn't stop me. Maybe he's enjoying me talking. We go to Greasy Sae's to trade and she seems shocked but pleased to see Gale. She gives him free soup and everything. Gale raises his eyebrows when Sae only pays him his half and myself nothing, but doesn't question the arrangement until we've left the Hob behind.

"How come Sae didn't pay you?" he asks.

"She took care of me after I came back to Twelve. You know, checked on me, made sure I was eating. I owe her for it. I won't let her pay me. And I always bring her my best game."

"Oh," he says. Owing people is something he easily understands. We halt when we've reached the point where I would normally head to the Victor's Village and he should head to what used to be the Seam to see his family. He must have realized, though, that he doesn't know quite where his family lives anymore.

"Hazelle still lives in the same place. I helped her rebuild the house. But your brothers and sister—"

"Moved out, yeah, I know. I guess I better visit my mom first."

We stall parting, though. I'm afraid that if I let him out of my sight he'll leave.

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere for now," he says with a slight smile when he notices my hesitation. "I planned on visiting my family for a while. And I won't leave without saying good-bye."

It's not a promise of normalcy between us, of anything more permanent, but it's the best I could hope for.

"Besides, I wouldn't miss meeting the rest of your family for the world," he says with a smirk.

"It's just me and Peeta," I correct. My hand goes to my stomach. "This is our first. I took some convincing," I explain vaguely when he looks confused as to why I've waited so long. "My mom's in Four. But there's Haymitch, too. And his geese. But you don't want to meet them. They're just a surly as Haymitch. And they bite if you're not careful."

Gale snorts in laughter at this.

"It's no laughing matter," I joke. "Those geese are lethal."

He laughs and I smile. It feels good to have a laugh with Gale at Haymitch's expense. I still don't want to leave him though.

"Do you want me to go with you?" I ask him. But Gale shakes his head.

"No. I better do this alone," he says, but he doesn't turn to leave either. I hesitate, then before I can rethink it I give him a quick hug.

"It's good to see you again, Gale. I missed you. Come visit, okay?" I say into his ear before releasing him.

"Okay, Catnip, I will," he says, smiling "You sure Peeta won't mind?"

"He'll . . . deal with it," I say. I can't exactly say Peeta will be _happy_ to see Gale again, but I am happy to see Gale, and Peeta has said repeatedly he's happy if I'm happy. And once I explain about Gale's family Peeta will understand.

"Okay then," says Gale. "I'll come visit."

This makes me feel better, and feel like I can actually part from him now on good terms without him running away. But Gale hesitates.

"Are you—" starts Gale. "I mean do you—" His tone has dropped from light to serious, and he's once again struggling to get his words out. It's weird. I've gotten so used to Peeta's eloquence that I forget others aren't so good at it. "Are you happy, Katniss?" he finally manages to get out.

Am I happy? That's a loaded question if I ever heard one. One I don't know the answer to myself. And what exactly does he mean? Does he mean am I happy in general, or am I happy with Peeta?

"I'm—" I begin, unsure. "I'm getting there."

_I_ wouldn't be satisfied with this answer so I'm not surprised Gale isn't. He bites his lip, unsure of how to continue.

"Does _he _make you happy?" he asks quietly, as if it takes a great deal of effort to clarify. This one sentence should make everything about his visit clear, that he came for more than just to apologize, but it doesn't. It just confuses me more. Because Gale had a family, children. And they died in a fire.

"He tries," I whisper. And my big mouth is actually working on my side now. "But it's hard. For both of us. After everything. There are days when I'm almost deliriously happy and then there are others when nothing can bring me out of that dark place, not even Peeta."

Now _that_ answer is a good one. It's the truth.

"I understand," says Gale. He seems a million years old when he says this. And I hate myself because it does seem he really is suffering as much as I am.

"I can't imagine what that must be like," I breathe, not thinking. "To be happy like that, build a family, thinking it's all over and then—"

"Terrible," he says, his face full of pain. "It's terrible. You must have some idea."

He's right. I do. All my fear is not entirely unwarranted. And how many times have I thought it was all over, that we were all safe, and then it turns out we're all in more danger than before? My arms go over my baby protectively without me really realizing it. While Peeta does nothing but ease my fears, Gale has done nothing but bring them all back.

"I hope you never have to go through that, Catnip," he says quietly, his eyes on my stomach.

And just like Gale so often does, he turns without one further word and disappears without a sound.


	7. Chapter 7

Peeta seems so relieved to see me when I get home. He swoops me into his arms, holding me tightly and covering me with kisses. I try to put up a good act for him, kissing him back and smiling. But as Peeta has said before, I'm a terrible liar. And he knows me too well.

"What's wrong, Katniss?" he asks. His loving gestures only make things worse because of everything Gale said. And I realize now just how fragile my little world is. The slightest disruption in routine wreaks havoc on my emotions. All I can think of is the little bit of happiness I've gained might be ripped out from under me at the slightest chance. My baby, Peeta…what if I lost them?

I must have started crying, because Peeta's sitting me down on the couch, and wiping at my cheeks, asking me what's wrong? What's happened? Is the baby okay? And I can't answer because the baby is _not_ okay, the baby, the baby…my baby…

I find myself some time later curled up at the end of the couch, my arms wrapped tightly around my stomach protectively. I can't quite remember how I got here, but dismiss it quickly because it doesn't really matter and I couldn't really care. I smell mint and raise my head to see Peeta waiting for me to stop crying with a cup of tea, looking incredibly worried. He's relieved to see my face again and hands me my cup. I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic and inhale as deeply as I can through my clogged nose. I sniff and take a sip. Instantly I feel better.

Peeta's watching me but I can't seem to get any words out. He deserves an explanation. But I don't know how to go about explaining it all.

Peeta sighs, and places his tea back down on the table. Cautiously, he scoots closer to me, and places a hand under my calf, tugs slightly. Without questioning him I let him stretch first one leg then the other out over his knees. Slowly and methodically he unties my hunting boots and removes them, then takes off my socks. He lifts my legs up and scoots under them, places them on his lap. His hand strokes my bare skin soothingly. He'll wait as long as it takes for me to find my voice.

_You could live a thousand lifetimes and still not deserve him, you know._

Sometimes Haymitch is _too_ right. It's annoying.

I take a few more sips of my tea. It's a good, strong, robust tea. Earl Grey, I think. With mint leaves and two sugar cubes. The sugar cubes remind me of Finnick. Maybe that's why I always buy them. And Peeta always remembers. The mint reminds me of my family. My father. My mother. Prim. It's like having them all with me, right in this cup of tea. Comforting me. Telling me it's all going to be alright.

"I miss them, Peeta," I whisper to him. A leftover tear runs down my face. I scoot closer to Peeta and snuggle into his chest. He wraps his arms around me and just holds me. Slowly I draw closer to him. Curl into him more. Take one hand off my cup and slide it around his back. Move my ear over his heart and listen to its steady pumping. His heartbeat reminds me that not all is lost. There is still hope. There's still the dandelion in the spring. _Peeta._ There's still life. _Our baby. _

When I give him a light kiss on the neck he knows it's okay for him to talk now. To comfort me fully. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and his thumb moves across my cheek.

"Do you want to call your mother?" he asks quietly. He knows that sometimes helps. When I miss them so bad it aches. And I _do_ want to talk to my mother. I want to hear her voice. We are the only family we have left now, the only ones who fully remember Prim and my father and loves them and misses them. And we live thousands of miles away. I miss her so bad it hurts. I wonder if she would come for a visit. I _am_ pregnant, after all. Maybe that will convince her to come home. At least for a little while. But could I put her through the trauma of coming back to District 12, where ghosts haunt our every step?

I nod. Peeta starts to get up to get the phone but I stop him. "But not yet. I owe you an explanation first." He slides back down into his seat and replaces his hand on my calf. I lean over and place my tea on the table, wondering how best to go about this.

"What happened, Katniss?" he says, waiting patiently.

"I met Gale," I blurt out. "In the woods."

His reaction is not completely unexpected. He stiffens, his hand tightens on my calf. His eyes become hard as he looks at me. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

"And?" says Peeta.

"And we talked. He apologized for Prim. Uh . . . multiple times. He blames himself. He was really beaten up over her. He said he'd come because he felt like he had to set things right, and that he screwed up the most with me."

"Is that all that happened?" he asks. He tries to hide it, but I can sense the tone of anxiety in his voice.

"He looked an awful mess. He was so pale, his hair was a mess, his uniform was a mess, he was unshaven, and he looks like he's aged fifty years since I saw him last. He looked so sad, Peeta. So miserable."

I pull Peeta's hand towards me and start to fiddle with his fingers nervously. He wraps his hand around mine, keeping them still. I look back up at him. I don't think he's all that worried about Gale's wellbeing.

"All right, drop the bad news on me," he says tiredly.

Unable to look at Peeta anymore I examine his cuticles. "I threw up," I whisper.

"You threw up?" he says, sounding bemused. I nod.

"And my big fat mouth told him I'm pregnant," I finish, a lot braver now that he doesn't seem mad.

"Oh, that's all," he says, sounding relieved. I look up at him, slightly surprised and confused.

"You don't mind?" I ask. Peeta chuckles.

"No. Not in the least bit," he says, relaxing considerably. "In fact, I'm glad you told him."

"Why?"

"Why do you think, Katniss?" he says, his eyes twinkling in amusement . . . or is that victory? . . . Oh.

_God_ men are idiots.

"What, are you marking your territory?" I say, only slightly mad. This only seems to amuse him further.

"I'd say you're already marked, Katniss," he says, laughing now.

"Oh, ha ha, very funny," I snap. I go to pull my legs away from him irritably but he holds on firm and stops laughing.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he says, trying to suppress his grin. "I don't mean anything by it. You know that."

I sigh and relax against him again. But that fear is still there and he needs to know about that.

"There's something else," I say, suddenly saddened by the reminder of Gale's misfortune. Peeta's lighthearted victory mood changes abruptly. In fact, he starts to look angry.

"What'd he do to you?" he growls. His hand tightens on my calf. I'm surprised by the ferocity. I start to ask him what he's . . . _oh._ So _that's_ what he was thinking.

Men really are idiots.

"It's not what you're thinking Peeta, so stop turning so green," I say. I try to chuckle because if the circumstances weren't so sad and didn't strike so close to home and if it were anyone but Gale I would find Peeta's unwarranted jealousy highly amusing. A muscle twitches in his cheek. I silence my humorless laughs and sigh. I place my hand on his cheek and turn his head to look at me. "I chose _you_, Peeta," I say seriously. "I love _you._"

"I wish you didn't make it sound like such a chore," he says shortly. I sigh in exasperation.

"Well, right now it kind of is," I snap. He grimaces, seeming to realize what he said.

"Sorry," says Peeta.

"Me, too."

"So what else happened?" he asks.

"Oh, it's terrible, Peeta," I say. "Poor Gale. He started a family."

"Yes, poor him," says Peeta, confused.

"They died, Peeta. In a fire. His wife, his kids."

Any hint of amusement dies right then and there. His mouth falls open a half an inch. I see a touch of fear in his eyes. Apparently I am not the only one who is selfish enough to think of myself first. Then he checks himself.

"Poor Gale," he repeats seriously.

His eyes meet mine.

"What if that happens to one of us, Peeta?" I whisper, betraying just how afraid I am. Peeta, it seems, doesn't know what to say. I've accomplished a first. He pulls me in close, holding me a bit tighter than necessary. "There's other things besides the Hunger Games, Peeta. I was an idiot not to think of them. Fire, famine, sickness, war…any number of accidents that could happen..."

Peeta runs his fingers down my braid, thinking. "Here I am, trying my hardest to show you there's nothing to fear. That life can go on and _must_ go on, and we should live well and be happy for _them_. I've done nothing but try to minimize your nightmares, my flashbacks, make us happy, give us some semblance of peace. We've been working on it for the past fifteen years. And one conversation with Gale sets us back a million miles." Peeta lets out a snort of humorless laughter. "What does_ that_ tell you about the guy? Either he's so much of a pessimist that everyone around him becomes miserable as well, or he still has too much of an influence on you. _Still!_ I thought maybe…" he trails off, twirling the end of my braid between his fingers. He sighs, and closes my braid in his fist. His knuckles go white. "I thought maybe after all this time I'd have more of an influence on you than Gale."

I've pulled back to look at him during his speech, and his face is hard, concealing any emotion, looking away from me. Yet I know by this alone that he's angry. And disappointed. I'm worried I've hurt him. And I can't bear to hurt Peeta.

"Peeta," I mutter, slipping my hand to his neck and pressing my temple to his. He avoids my eyes, looking instead at my ear. "Peeta…Peeta…" finally he looks at me. "You're…you're my hope. You're my good. You're my dandelion in the spring." I might be trying to convince myself more than him, or rather, remind myself of everything Peeta means to me. Peeta means more to me than Gale. A lot more. Gale I can live without, hadn't I proven that over the past fifteen years? Peeta I cannot. I cannot lose Peeta. I cannot lose the boy with the bread. "I can't live without you, Peeta," I voice. "I—I suppose I'm not making much sense."

A see the hint of a smile. But it disappears almost instantly, and I feel worse than before. The boy with the bread is slipping away from me.

"Peeta, don't you understand what you mean to me?" I ask. My voice becomes more confidant and this catches his attention. "You mean so much more to me than Gale. If you think he has more influence on me than you do . . . then you have no idea the effect you have on me."

Suddenly Peeta's face hardens, and he drops my braid. His hand clutches in a fist instead and his knuckles go white. His eyes cloud over slightly.

"Peeta," I whisper, recognizing the signs. I pull him towards me and kiss him until he relaxes.

"I said that to you before," he says quietly when he's recovered. "That _you_ have no idea the effect you can have. Before training during our first Games. Real or not real?"

"Real," I answer.

"I thought so. Then you attacked me."

"Not real," we both say at the same time. We both give a silly little grin at this small accomplishment of Peeta answering his own game.

Peeta pulls me closer, and places a hand on my cheek. His thumb brushes over my lips. My hand slides from his neck to his chest, pressing my palm flat over his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I should have trusted you. It's just, when you said you met Gale, my first thought was that you were going to leave me."

"Peeta, I_ can't_ leave you," I correct. He can't go around thinking things like that. Because they're not true. He sighs at my words. "You're my husband. You're the father of my child. And _I_ can't leave you . . . because I belong with you. I don't know how to survive without you. I honestly don't think I could."

Peeta searches my gaze for a moment, then looks relieved. He tucks a stray hair behind my ear and gives me a swift kiss before lifting my legs off of his lap and picking up the two cups of tea to take into the kitchen. I follow him, perch myself on the counter opposite, and watch him as he washes the cups.

"I still haven't quite figured it out," I say to him when he turns around to look at me. "He said he wanted to make things right with me. But of course I suspect he wants more . . . he _is_ Gale, after all . . . but what about his family? Surely he wouldn't want anything romantic with me because of that alone."

Peeta looks slightly amused. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. "Have you considered that he actually came because of what he _said_ he came for?"

"Surely that can't be it though. There has to be strings attached," I say. Peeta smirks.

"Not everyone's like Haymitch," he says. I roll my eyes. "Maybe he's changed. It's been _fifteen years_, Katniss. He's probably not the Gale you knew anymore. Tell me, would you recognize yourself if you saw yourself as you are now, fifteen years ago?"

I have to think about that one. _My name is Katniss Mellark. I am thirty-two years old. I am married to Peeta. I am pregnant with his child. _Fifteen years ago the line went something like: _My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I am a fire mutt. My sister is dead. I might as well be dead. Why am I not dead? It would be better for everyone if I were dead . . ._

Peeta's right. I would not recognize myself.

Is it the same with Gale? I think it must be. If it's true for me, it must be true for him. And what about Peeta? No, he would definitely not recognize himself. That broken, scarred, highjacked boy that survived the war is not the healing, semi-content man I call my husband standing before me, looking at me with a steady gaze. But perhaps he would. He is Peeta. And Peeta is _good_. As Finnick said, he's deep-down better than the rest of us. And that has not changed.

Peeta crosses to me. His hand brushes along my thigh and down my calf in a loving gesture before he bends down and opens the cabinet beside me, takes out a bowl. He starts to prepare bread for lunch and I just watch him, feeling a strange happiness as I look at him, my boy with the bread. I belong with him. I know my place is with him.


	8. Chapter 8

"_Congratulations to the final contestants of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that no babies may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."_

_That's it. There's nothing more. I look down at my protruding belly. What are they going to do? What are they going to do to my baby? I raise my bow, preparing for some unknown assailant. I have to protect my baby, even at the cost of my own life. No, wait. I have to stay alive or my baby will die. My baby needs me. I look around in a panic. _

_As soon as I whip around I find myself face-to-face with Clove. I scream, because the knife is glinting in her hand, her eyes are on my belly, aiming for my child. I scramble for my bow and an arrow but find I've dropped my weapons. Clove grins evilly, and throws the knife. _

_I feel it hit me, and I fall into the lake, dropping into the water, sinking underneath. I hold my breath, and search for the knife but find none. Clove missed. I kick for the surface, which seems miles away. I don't make it. Because a few strokes up the pain begins. Seeping pain, like something I need is being drawn from my skin into the water in painful pricks. My mouth opens in a silent scream, and water rushes on my tongue. But not fresh water. Salt water. Tainted with something sickly coppery._

_Shocked and hurting, my lungs burning, the pain beginning to concentrate in my lower abdomen, I kick and flail for the surface. But it's so far away . . . will I make it in time?_

_I break the surface sooner than expected and I gasp for air. I curl my arms around the pain in my stomach. The seeping pain is drawing blood out from me, floating in clouds around me in the water. Trying not to panic, I see a beach not far away and start to swim for it as best I can. As soon as I land in sand I look around my surroundings. I'm in the arena of the Quarter Quell. _

_I pull myself out of the water fully onto the beach, coughing and spluttering. What time is it? What section am I in? I look around and Peeta's a few feet away from me, shouting something. But I can't hear him. I stumble to him. He's pounding on what seems to be thin air, shouting something desperately. _

"_What? I can't hear you! Peeta, what is it?" I shout at him in a panic, reaching out to him. My fingers meet solid air. He can't seem to hear me either, but in answer he points to the trees._

_And that's when I hear the horrible wail of a baby. Not just any baby. My baby. And not just any wail. Not that wonderful wail that means she's taken her first breath. But a wail of pain. A terrible, terrible scream. A dying, tortured scream. And that's when I start to scream, too. _

_I completely forget about Peeta, running to the woods in a panic. Where is she? What have they done with her? Tears start to stream down my face as I call out for her. I locate the source of the noise in a tree. A Jabberjay. My hands reach for an arrow to shoot the thing but there's nothing there. I forgot I dropped them. The whole forest comes alive in the nightmarish sound of my baby's screams. And just to add extra torment they throw in Peeta's screaming, too. _

_Escape. I must escape._

_I run back to the beach, drop in the sand besides Peeta, my hands clamped over my ears to try and drown out the sound. Peeta drops with me, his hand placed on the barrier. I raise my own hand and place it over his. I cannot feel him. I do not get the luxury of the comfort of his skin. My hand drops and I curl into the fetal position, my hands clamped over my ears. Waiting for the screaming to stop. _

_My stomach clenches in pain. _

_The sand turns into soft, silky fabric and I open my eyes. I'm back in my bedroom. Back in my bed with Peeta at my side. It was just a nightmare. A terrible, terrible nightmare. I can still hear their screams echoing in my head. I'm about to reach for Peeta's comforting embrace when I feel a hot, gooey, sticky liquid between my legs. Confused, I whip the sheets back. They're covered in blood. I stare at it in horror. I may not be my mother, but I know what that means. It means a miscarriage. It means I lost the baby. It means my baby is dead. _

I wake up screaming.

In a complete and utter panic I fumble for the light, turn it on, whip the sheets back. There's no blood. I place my hand there. Reassuringly white, soft, clean fabric meets my fingers. Shaking, still half in my nightmare, I place my hands on my comfortingly round belly. My baby is alive. My baby is safe. It was a nightmare. I clutch at my hair, rocking back and forth, shaking. _It wasn't real, it wasn't real . . ._

I feel Peeta's arms embrace me, hear his soft whisper in my ear telling me the same thing. Feel his hands in my hair, his lips kissing me. I turn to him, clinging to him, crying.

"It was just a nightmare, Katniss, it wasn't real. I swear it wasn't real. It's okay. I'm right here."

"I was in the arena," I babble into his chest. "The first one. And Claudius Templesmith, he said there was the revision was revoked and…and no babies allowed . . . and Clove pushed me in the lake and it was saltwater and there was blood and I was drowning, and it was like something was being pulled from my skin like the mist poison except it hurt. Blood. And then I came up for air and I was in the Quell arena…in the Jabberjay section and I heard…I heard…"

"It's okay, Katniss, it wasn't real," whispers Peeta, holding me tightly. It's the only thing that keeps me from screaming in horror.

"I heard our baby scream, screaming…wailing in pain…terrible, it was so bad, Peeta…I don't want to go back there…" my voice has turned high-pitched and I start to cry in earnest. "I d-don't want to hear my baby s-scream like that ever again!"

"I know, Katniss, I know. It's okay. It wasn't real. I promise. You're safe. The baby's safe," murmurs Peeta soothingly, placing a warm hand on my belly, rubbing it gently to calm me down.

"And then I was back on the beach and I heard the jabberjays mimic you screaming and you were on the other side and I couldn't touch you, I couldn't reach you! And then the sand turned into sheets and I woke up here. And there was blood, Peeta! So much blood! Blood all over the sheets and…and our baby was d-dead! I lo-lost it! I lost the b-baby!"

I'm crying insensibly and it takes a while for Peeta to calm me down enough to listen to reason.

"You didn't lose the baby, Katniss," he whispers, taking my hand and trapping it between my belly and his larger hand. "The baby is safe and alive and right here, inside you. You're not going to lose the baby. It's okay, Katniss. It's okay. We're all okay."

"Y-You promise?" I sniff.

"I promise," he whispers, wiping my tears away, turning the light off, guiding us back down on the bed with my back to his chest. He holds me tightly, one arm wrapped underneath my shoulders and placed on my belly, coming around to meet our hands already resting there. I cling to his arm with my free hand. His warm breath tickles my ear and I snuggle deep into his embrace, still sniffing occasionally. Peeta plants a gentle kiss on my neck.

"It was so _real,_ Peeta," I whisper. He squeezes me gently.

"It wasn't real, Katniss. It was just a nightmare." He rubs his hand over my belly and buries his nose in my hair, presses his lips there. "Try and go back to sleep, Katniss. I'll be right here. I'll watch over you. Go to sleep, sweetheart."

Under his gentle caresses and sweet kisses and comforting words it's easier to calm myself, empty my mind. But there's no way I'm going back to sleep. The dream was too raw and too real. I'm afraid to go back to sleep.

"Tell me a story, Peeta," I whisper.

"A story?" repeats Peeta. "What kind of story?"

"I don't care," I say, closing my eyes tightly. "Just something to make me forget."

Peeta's silent for a long moment. His thumb brushes my stomach, my hand.

"Did I ever tell you…" he starts, then stops, thinking how best to continue. He gives me a kiss on the cheek and I roll slightly over on my back so I can look at him. He smiles and places a kiss on my lips. "When I was in the Capitol—"

"Of all the things to pick, Peeta, you have to pick _that?"_ I interrupt, horrified. He smiles softly.

"Well, it's working already, isn't it?" I scowl. He's right. But I had not wanted to exchange one nightmare for another. "Just listen, Katniss. It gets better."

I frown at him. He chuckles, kissing me on the nose. He takes a deep breath, and the smile disappears. His arms tighten around me, and his hands on my belly go still. Peeta stares off into the distance, lost in memories. I know how hard it must be for him to relive his torture. But he relives it in his dreams and his flashback all the time anyway. And he chose to tell this story. He takes a deep breath.

"They had taken almost all my memories of you. Distorted them. Turned me against you. And then they put me in front of the cameras to be their puppet to tell everyone how evil the rebels were . . . how evil you were. How we were going to destroy ourselves if the war continued and there needed to be a cease-fire. Snow had me tortured into reading his program. There was nothing I could do, and the deep part of my mind where I was still _me_ was helpless to resist."

I lock my fingers with his and give them a squeeze. Peeta sighs, and looks at me. He immediately relaxes.

"Everything was going as planned on the program. It was as though I was watching myself through someone else's eyes, along for the ride while someone else took control of my body and my mouth and my mind. But then something happened none of us expected."

"Beetee intercepted the signal," I conclude.

"Yes. And what I saw was you, standing in the ruins of the bakery. It threw me off. It messed with my mind. And for the first time I was _aware_ that that was not me speaking those words. Or almost aware. It was like a whisper from a forgotten dream. I had not seen you as yourself once since I entered. All they showed me was the mutt, day after day, hour after hour . . . until I believed that was what you were. But there you were, on the screen, no fangs, no mad look in your eyes. I did not see the murderer they told me you were. You looked so sad and hopeless. I hardly recognized you. You were barely on there long enough for me to be more than confused.

"Then I was back on the screen, and I tried to keep talking, to do what they wanted me to do. What I thought was right. And then _bam!_ There was Finnick talking about Rue. The whole thing turned into a broadcast battle and there was absolute chaos on set. I heard people screaming in the thing in my ear. Shouting at me to keep talking while Thirteen's clips continued to interrupt.

"Then there you were again. This time you were in the woods, and you were singing. I can't remember what—"

"'The Hanging Tree,'" I tell him, remembering. "I was singing 'The Hanging Tree.' I hadn't sung it since before my father died. Pollux asked me to sing and I didn't know the cameras were on."

Peeta nods, his eyebrows furrowing together, suddenly remembering.

"Well, you were singing, and then you were gone again, but it was enough. Enough to conjure up a memory I'd forgotten in the Capitol's torture. But it was a memory they couldn't distort because they didn't have any footage of it. They had me talking about it in the Games, of course, but the actual memory of it, it was there, and it was something they couldn't take away.

"It was you, singing. When we were five. The Valley Song. With everything they'd done to my mind I didn't even know it was you. I just had the memory of this little girl in a red plaid dress and her hair in two braids, standing up on the stool and singing so beautifully it made the birds outside the window stop singing. And I remembered the feeling. The same feeling I had a whisper of when I saw you singing on the screen.

"What feeling?" I breathe, enthralled by his story. So far I'd almost forgotten my terrible dream.

Peeta smiles softly. He raises a hand from my stomach to brush a chunk of hair out of my tearstained eyes and cup my cheek.

"The feeling I get every time I look at you," he whispers, with such sincerity that it makes my heart melt. I find a small smile creeping on my face. His thumb brushes over my lips, and he leans down and kisses them gently. We're silent for a few moments, wrapped up in each other. Until Peeta gives himself a little shake. "Anyway, as soon as I saw you on the screen it was as if something inside me—me—came out. _I_ wasn't in control of my mouth, but then Caesar asked me about you. If I had any parting thoughts for you. And I said some Capitol drabble, but then _I_ came out. I felt like myself for a moment. I felt like me.

"The day before Snow had told me he planned to bomb Thirteen. As a scare tactic or something…something to get me on his side. We both knew _you_ were in Thirteen. By then I'd already started to hate you, but…but when I heard you singing on the television…when I felt like myself for a minute, the idea of his bombing Thirteen and killing you was horrifying to me. And I knew I had to get out a warning to you. But already I was fading. It was a mad struggle within myself to get out the information you needed."

The memory hits me. _'And you…in Thirteen…dead by morning!'_

"You saved lives with that warning, Peeta," I tell him. "You saved Gale and Prim. She'd gone back for the cat and Gale went to find her. They were in the shelter seconds before the bombings started. That extra ten minutes your warning gave us saved their lives."

"Then it was worth it," he whispers. "What they did to me for it was worth it. Snow was terrible to me for that. He tortured me for a week straight and I never got healed for anything he did. By the end of that week I hated you again. But that memory of you singing remained. Almost gone, but not entirely. It gave me something to cling to when I felt like dying. It gave me something to hold onto, one small piece of my mind left untouched. You gave me hope."

Peeta finishes his story and is silent while I think about it. I gave him hope? I saved some part of his damaged mind? I never knew that. Now that I do, it's…good…that I helped him, that I helped save him. Whether I knew it or not. I'm glad I helped him.

I snuggle back into Peeta, and he holds me close, covering my belly again with his hands.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** _This is the second to last chapter, we're almost to the end! Er...this is a bit graphic. Fair warning. Not disgustingly graphic, just...contains mentions of things a woman would rather not think about. What I was thinking when I wrote this...eurgh. I've never given birth before, so I've honestly no idea what it's like. And I know, it seems a bit abrupt for Katniss to give birth already, but, like I said, this was more along the lines of drabbles than anything resembling a plot. Some of you have asked questions about Gale, and I never really answered them. I just thought it had a poetic elegance to it, his family dying in a fire. I never really intended for it to be some big conspiracy or anything to do with the Capitol, just a terrible accident. Simply because of the randomness of life. I know, I'm horrible. Sorry Gale. I love you, I really do. Nothing personal. Well... sort of. He won't be making a reappearance. I figure he went back to District 2 or some other District after a bit of a visit, but kept in touch. I suppose he and Katniss repaired their friendship somewhat and he'd visit his family on holidays and whatnot._

_Anyway, Allons-y!_

* * *

"Come on, Katniss, honey, push!"

The scream tears through me with the pain. It tears me in half, ripping, screaming, pain, terrible pain…Is it worse than being set on fire? Yes, no, yes, I don't know…but it's more pain than I've experienced in a long time. I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

"Breathe, sweetheart, breathe, you're almost there," murmurs Peeta besides me. My hand reaches out for his as another wave of pain crashes through me. He winces. His hand on my back and in my hair is the only thing that doesn't hurt.

"One more push, Katniss. A real big one. I can see the head. Push, honey, push!"

"I am pushing!" I screech at my mother. And it's true. I am. I'm pushing as hard as I can. And it hurts. I'm blinded by the pain. But apparently I am not pushing hard enough.

"Come on, you can do it, sweetheart!"

Peeta squeezes my arms and my hand, and it acts simultaneously as both stimulant and pain reliever. I push harder than I previously thought I could.

"There it is!"

I'm rewarded with my efforts with the feeling of something passing. The pain ebbs. Peeta breathes a sigh of relief and I try to catch my breath.

There's a slapping sound, and then I hear a cry. The cry of a baby. My baby. A wave of something floods over me. Tears prick my eyes. Different from the tears of pain. It takes a moment for me to identify this as happiness.

My baby.

"Congratulations," my mother says loudly over the wailing of the baby. "It's a beautiful, healthy baby girl."

A girl. _A girl._ My baby.

"Can I hold her?" I hear myself say.

My mother comes round, carrying a swathe of frayed blankets. She deposits the tiny bundle in my arms.

My baby.

_My baby._

I cradle the bundle of blankets carefully, resting her tiny head in the crook of my arm. It's covered in a black fuzz. A strangled sort of sob escapes my lips. The baby gurgles. Her eyes open and look at me, her mother.

_Her mother._

They are bright blue. Peeta's eyes.

His arms wraps around me. In the corner of my eye I can see his face. Covered in tears. Filled with wonder. Distorted with a brilliant smile. His other hand comes to rest on top of mine, on our baby.

Our baby.

_Our baby._

"She looks like you," he whispers.

"She looks like us," I correct. "Both of us."

The black hair is mine. The blue eyes are his. The dimpled cheeks are mine. The chin is his. The lips are mine. The nose is his. She is us. Both Peeta and myself. She's ours. I reach out a finger to touch her cheek. Her little fist comes up and grips it with a disproportionally strong hand. Yup. She's ours, alright.

"She's so beautiful," says Peeta, his voice clogged with happy tears.

"Yes, she is," I breathe through my own tears. "_So_ beautiful."

Peeta presses his temple to my head. His arms tighten around me. I want to look at him but I can't tear my eyes off our daughter.

_Our daughter._

"I love you so much, Katniss," he says.

"I love you too, Peeta," I choke. I run my thumb down our baby's cheek. "And I love you, baby. I love you. _I love you."_

"What are we going to call her?" Peeta whispers.

_Our daughter._

Peeta's arm tightens around my shoulders, holds me securely. His finger—which is the exact size as our baby's whole arm—runs down our baby's arm. And I'm finally able to tear my eyes away from our daughter to look at the father of my child. Peeta. It's just a flash, a memory hits me out of nowhere. But as his eyes move from our daughter to lock with my gaze I know exactly what I want to call our baby.

"Dandelion," I whisper. "Dandelion Mellark."

Peeta smiles knowingly, and looks satisfied with this name. He kisses me on the temple, and then looks back into my eyes.

"Somehow I knew you'd say that."

* * *

_They play in the meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs._ _legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much. _

_The questions are just beginning. The arenas have been completely destroyed, the memorials built, there are no more Hunger Games. But they teach about them at school, and the girl knows we played a role in them. The boy will know in a few years. How can I tell them about that world without frightening them to death? My children, who take the words of the song for granted: _

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow _

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow _

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes _

_And when again they open, the sun will rise. _

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daises guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

_My children, who don't know they play on a graveyard._

_Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won't ever really go away._

_I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years._

_But there are much worse games to play._


	10. Chapter 10

The feather grazes my cheek. The stretch of the bowstring creaks in my right ear. The wound wool string tugs on my fingers. The graze of the arrowhead brushes my first fingers of my left hand. The smooth wood of the handle pulls on my left hand.

I engage my muscles to compensate. My hair blows softly in the wind. My arrow adjusts itself slightly to the left of the target to compensate for the wind. I take two deep breaths; release the air in my lungs to steady my aim. A cicada starts buzzing somewhere to my left, distracting me. I suppress a stab of irritation and steady my breath again. The muscles in my fingers holding the string pull the arrow back fully, and release the string.

My arrow whizzes through the air, and impales itself directly in the eye of my intended target. I flush, grinning in triumph as the fully-grown buck falls to the ground, dead. My seven year old son gasps next to me.

"Wow, mommy! You got a deer!" he cheers.

"I got a deer!" I repeat happily, and move forward to the creature, my son trailing after me, both of us grinning and laughing like fools, scaring off any game left near us. But it doesn't matter. This deer will feed us for over a month, we don't need any more game. It's only the fourth deer I've ever brought down in my life and the only one I have killed with my son at my side.

Robin, my son, hangs back while I check to make sure the deer is dead. I might be teaching him to hunt, but his innocence is not something I can easily let go of. And something as big and beautiful as a deer, something that was so alive, is crossing a line. Birds are okay. Squirrels are okay. Turkeys are okay. But a deer? I don't want him to see a wounded, dying animal like this. Already dead is one thing. Dying is something completely different.

To my relief the deer is very dead. I gesture Robin over, and he clings to me, laughing. His laugh is so sweet and beautiful and musical it never fails to bring a smile to my face.

I know I will have to let go of his innocence one day, just as my father did with me. I was six then. Robin is seven. I will have to let him kill his own one day soon. I will have to force him to see death for what it really is to make him stronger. But it's so hard to let go of, because every beautiful, innocent thing is precious to me. Especially my children.

Robin removes my arrow from the deer's eye and cleans it off on the grass while I remove my hunting knife from my belt to skin the deer and expertly cut it into more manageable pieces. Robin helps me place the hunks of meat into the bag, and I heft the heavy thing over my shoulders.

"C'mon, Robin," I say, and head off. He trails after me, clinging to the bottom of my father's hunting jacket as though afraid if he let go he might get lost. It makes me smile. I would never let him get lost. He doesn't let go until we reach the gate near the market, where he must to open it for me and close it behind us.

"I can't wait to see the look on Rooba's face!" says Robin excitedly as we near the butcher's shop.

I smile at him as he skips backwards ahead of me, his face lit up like the sun.

"I know," I answer, grinning myself. "She hasn't seen a deer from me since before you were born."

Robin pulls a face, and I laugh. He doesn't seem to realize how young he really is, and he's in too much of a hurry to grow up, like every kid. What I wouldn't give to be his age again, young and innocent, with no nightmares to haunt my sleep, when I still thought the world was a good place.

_It is a good place,_ I remind myself. _I only have to look at Robin to know that._

We've reached the butchers and Robin knocks on the back door excitedly. Even though hunting in the woods is no longer illegal, no longer considered poaching, no longer punishable by death or whipping—

As soon as I think the word I hear the crack of the whip, hear it whistle through the air, see it slice through Gale's mangled flesh . . .

_No, stop that. None of that right now, _I think angrily.

Even though poaching is no longer illegal, it's still not a good idea to drag a fully-grown deer through the streets. People are no longer starved, but it doesn't mean it won't draw some disgust out of the people in the streets. They just want their food. They don't want to know where it comes from.

The door swings open and Rooba answers, smiling down at Robin as he greets her with enthusiasm. Robin is like Prim in the way he can bring a smile to just about anyone's face.

" . . . We got a surprise for you, Rooba!" Robin finishes his ramblings. Being quiet in the woods for so long makes him be a practical explosion of sound when he gets out.

"Oh, really now? What is it?" says the butcher.

Robin grins. I can tell he's bursting to tell her but doesn't want to ruin the surprise. He turns to me and tugs on the bag. "Show him mom!" he says, trying to sound a lot more grown-up. He does that when he's around other people. He'll call me mommy when we're alone and mom in front of other people. Part of growing up, I guess. He'll also call me momma sometimes, but that's beside the point.

I place the bag on the ground as ordered, but let him do the honors. Robin opens the bag and Rooba peers inside.

"A deer!" bursts out Robin. "We got a deer!"

"Well, that is something!" says Rooba, her grin broadening as her eyes land on the meat in the bag.

Robin rambles on about the details of our hunt. Rooba and I just smile at him, reacting in just the way he wants when he wants. We can't get a word in but I don't mind. Seeing him so excited and happy is worth any amount of time. When at last he's run out of breath and concluded his story Rooba and I exchange money, and she takes the deer.

"Are you hungry or anything? Do you want some dinner?"

"No, thanks, we've got to go meet Peeta and Dee at the bakery," I answer politely. Rooba nods like she was expecting this.

"Well, here's your money," she answers, and we exchange money for the majority of the deer. The rest I keep for us to eat. I thank her and she waves us away.

"Bye!" says Robin. I pick up my empty bag and we head out, waving at Rooba as she waves back and shuts the door.

Robin takes my hand as soon as we're out of eyesight, almost exactly like his father would. His small, warm hand tugs me along. Already his hand is slightly calloused from hunting and has small burn scars from baking. We head to the bakery.

The bell on the front door rings as we enter. Robin takes off like a rocket to the kitchen in the back.

"Dad! Dad!" I hear him shouting as I follow him at a much slower pace. "Guess what? Momma shot a deer!"

"Really?" answers Peeta, sounding amused. I enter the room and lean against the door frame, playing the whole thing off very nonchalantly. Peeta looks at me, grinning broadly. He's covered in frosting and flour. "A whole deer?"

"It was nothing," I say in a false-modest tone, examining my nails coolly. But when I feel Peeta's arms wrap around me and his nose nuzzle into my neck I can't keep the grin off my face that shows how proud I am of myself.

"A deer's not nothing," he whispers in my ear, peppering light kisses up my neck. Keeping up the act would be pointless anymore.

"Oh, hell, who am I kidding. You're right. I'm a badass," I say in an undertone, grinning and twisting to face my husband.

"Robin," says Peeta, in an innocent tone that deceives Robin but not me. "Why don't you go help your sister? She's decorating cakes in the basement."

"Aw, come on," groans Robin. No doubt he wants to regale Peeta with the tale of our hunting exploit.

"Go on, Robin," I tell him, a bit more sternly. "You can tell dad all about our hunting day during dinner."

Robin makes a grumbling sound, but after I've taken him hunting and taken down a deer he won't argue with me. As soon as the door to the basement shuts and we've got the room to ourselves Peeta pulls me in close and gives me a long, deep kiss that leaves me breathless and wanting more.

Unfortunately, I don't get more, because the basement door bursts open again and in walks my ten-year old daughter, Dandelion—nicknamed Dee—looking very irritable and trailed by a very chatty Robin. I groan, throw my head back on the doorframe. Peeta sighs. He has much more patience than me. He gives me a light kiss on the cheek. "Tonight," he whispers in my ear.

This perks me right up.

"Da_aa_d!" whines Dee. We turn to face our children. "Robin's being annoying!"

"Dee, don't whine. Robin, leave your sister alone," I chide, seeking the simplest way out. I don't get out of it that easily, though. Dee has probably been in that 'zone' of decorating that Peeta talks about, and whenever interrupted they get very irritable. So Dee isn't going to be finished ranting for a while.

" . . . he comes down there and starts jabbering on and ruins my cake and you take _his_ side?"

I sigh and Peeta looks shocked.

"What do you mean, ruined your cake?" he says, his body tensing, a touch of anger in his tone that's almost imperceptible. It's one of those things, I realize. One of those lingering fears. Wasted foods is just one of those things that gets the blood pressure up. Because of what it used to be, when we couldn't waste a crumb, when we needed every bit of food we had. It doesn't matter anymore, we have more than enough money. But it's been ingrained so far into us and our society for so long it's instinctual to flinch when food hits the floor.

"It just looked so good!" defends Robin, and Dee huffs in frustration. And the whole thing becomes clear.

"You _ate_ it?" I conclude, forcing back a laugh. Peeta visibly relaxes, realizing his tension's unwarranted.

"The whole thing?" asks Peeta.

"Just a bite," mumbles Robin guiltily, his head hung to the floor.

"A _big_ bite," pipes up Dee. I shoot her a look and she falls into an aggravated silence.

"Robin," says Peeta tiredly. "You can't waste food like that."

"I'm sorry," says Robin, all former excitement gone. Or repressed, rather.

"I know, I forgive you. Just don't do it again, okay?"

"Okay."

"Alright, we're done here anyway. Let's clean up and we'll go home," promises Peeta. Robin cheers but Dee has a hard time putting aside her irritability. Peeta has Robin clean up the kitchen while he himself sneaks downstairs. I briefly wonder what he's doing, but I've got bigger problems to deal with. Like my daughter.

I draw her to the front of the store, away from her brother, and kneel down to her level, take her hands in mine. They are smaller than her brothers' but calloused and scarred in the same way. We teach our children both our skills, and they have inherited both our talents, though I'd go so far as to say Dee is a tad more skilled with the bow than Robin. It could just be because she is older, though. Robin will be just as good when he's stronger. And they both have such an artistic eye. Our children really are the perfect blend of both Peeta and myself.

"Hey, stop being a grouchy guss," I tell her. She scowls, just like I would, and that makes me smile. "You're too much like me. It'll get you in trouble someday," I comment.

"I _wanna_ be just like you, momma," she reluctantly grumbles.

"You don't want to be like me," I say sadly, wiping a bit of flour off her cheek. "I'm too damaged. You just stay you. I like you the way you are. When you're not being grumpy."

"Hmph!" she says, turning her nose up in the air. I work hard to suppress a laugh.

"How's this. I'll make a deal with you. You cheer up, be nice to your brother, and we'll go swimming tomorrow at the lake. Sound fair?"

Her eyes instantly brighten at the promise of swimming.

"Deal," she agrees, shaking my hand. Her smile is back and I feel that much happier. I give her a swift kiss on the cheek, and nudge her into the kitchen.

Robin's almost finished cleaning and Peeta's returned from the basement with a large paper bag. I can only guess the cake Robin ruined is probably in there. My mouth starts to water at the prospect of cake.

We help finish up and Peeta locks up the cash register while I go around locking the doors and windows. Dee switches over the open sign to closed, Peeta locks the door behind us and we go on our merry way. Peeta and I linger back while the kids race up ahead, their previous quarrel forgotten. I watch them fondly.

"I love that smile," says Peeta quietly. I look over to see he's been watching me.

"What smile?" I say. He takes my hand.

"That smile that means you're happy."

Far from irritating me this comment makes me smile. I pull him a bit closer and place my head on his shoulder, looking up at him happily. He just grins.

"I promised Dee we'd go swimming tomorrow," I spring on him. He groans.

"Katniss! I've got a cake to do for the O'Reilly's wedding!"

"So close up early. I'll help you."

"Oh, no, you'll just make things worse," he says. I gasp, slightly offended.

"What, you don't have faith in my cooking skills?"

"No," he answers, grinning. I give him a playful shove as we start the climb to the Victor's Village. He rolls his eyes. "Okay, well, you are getting better at the bread, but I wouldn't let you anywhere near . . . anything, really, with frosting. I wouldn't want to submit the O'Reilly's to something as horrible as your decorating skills."

I gasp, really offended now. I drop his hand and quicken my pace, walking a few feet ahead of him so he can't see my grin.

"Hey! Katniss, wait up! I was just joking," he says, hurrying to catch up with me. The minute he sees my grin the game's up and he gives an exasperated huff. I loop my arm through his and give him a kiss to let him know he's forgiven. But he can't seem to keep his mouth shut. "But you have to admit, you _are_ a horrible froster. You remember the last time I tried to teach you how to do icing."

I remember. The one and only time Peeta tried to show me how to do the beautiful frosting he does was a complete disaster. My flowers looked more like piles of purple poo, the lettering was absolutely terrible and the edging was completely uneven. Honestly, a three-year old could do a better job than me decorating those things. They did, actually. But that's not entirely fair, I think, because they've got Peeta's baker blood working for them and I have absolutely zero artistic talent.

I scowl at the memory and Peeta laughs. I can't really blame him, though. Once you got over the fact that the cake was so hideous and actually ate the thing is was delicious. Plus it was before we had the kids and that cake led to . . . I smile at the memory.

"So how bad did Robin ruin the cake?" I ask, before my thoughts could go far down that road I'm not allowed to tread until tonight.

"Oh, it wasn't that bad. I don't know what Dee was so upset about, really. It was just one of the birthday cakes. I cut off the bit he ate from. He was right. It is delicious."

Peeta gives me an impish, caught-in-the-cookie-jar kinda grin and my mouth falls open with an indignant noise.

"You ate without us after chastising Robin for doing the same thing?"

"What? I couldn't let it go to waste. It was just a bit," he defends and I huff at him. He gestures the bag to me. "Don't worry, there's plenty left for you, sweetheart."

I roll my eyes, but my desire for sweets beats out my pride.

"Is it the kind with the strawberries?" I ask eagerly.

"Your favorite," he says with a grin. And my irritation disappears on the spot.

"You're amazing," I tell him, even though it's really Robin that I have to thank for the cake, not Peeta. But Peeta could have just as easily chose not to bring it home.

Peeta smiles at me, his eyes twinkling. He glances back to our children, their playing figures silhouetted in the setting sun. I follow his gaze, and smile in happiness. I have everything I never realized I wanted out of life.

Peeta gives me a quick peck on the cheek, and he looks at me, his eyes sparkling. He takes my hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze as he says;

"And so, my love, are you."

We share a smile, and we go home.

**-THE END-**


End file.
